


Three's a Crowd

by Thranduil_is_a_bitchking



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Sherlock (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: I Don't Even Know, I've messed with timelines, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Not really though, Odin is a Good Parent, Odin's Good Parenting, SherLoki - Freeform, Sorry john, and I love Sherlock too, brief appearance of Avengers, but Loki is my bae, for once, sorry - Freeform, when he wants to be
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-02-20 04:49:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2415575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thranduil_is_a_bitchking/pseuds/Thranduil_is_a_bitchking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John likes Sherlock. A lot. And he's pretty sure that under that whole sociopath-married-to-my-work exterior, Sherlock likes him too. So when a mysterious stranger moves into the flat below them and joins their merry gang, how will John react? After all, three's a crowd...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where I'm going with this, but bare with me, okay? This is also my first attempt at first person, so reviews are very much welcomed.
> 
> Also, in the Covent Garden bit, anyone who has been will know what, and hopefully whom, I am talking about. If not, the string quartet I'm using, as there are two I think, is Classycool, and the woman - who happens to be in both of the string quarters I have seen - looks like a black River Song, same hair, same voice, different skin colour. Google them, I'm sure you won't be disappointed! There's an opera singer too, but I don't think she's as good as these guys! :)
> 
> As always, enjoy :)

I pulled my coat tighter around myself. The cold here was definitely different to that of Asgard. While it was never as bad as Jotünheim, there was still a chill in the air. The city was beautiful however, orange-glowing street lamps, the crisp, cool air, the sound of constant traffic, of movement and of life. 

I have always, and forever will adore the snow. Now was no different. White crystals fell from the sky, dancing merrily with the breeze under the street lamps. I took a moment to breathe, to take it in.

London in all its splendour.

I could definitely see myself living here, I thought fleetingly. The hustle and bustle, the constant thrum of life that emanates from the capital. A frequency that even I was inimmune to. It was decided then. London it would be. I could do with somewhere to escape to, after all. It was perfect.

BREAKLINE

Covent Garden was a picture in the winter, the old market covered in a thick blanket of snow, the constant noise of the inner-city seemingly miles away as I sat in a small, yet always full, restaurant on one of the lower levels. I sat at a small table outside the Crusting Pipe, a glass of wine in one hand and a stick - purely ornamental of course - in the other. The sound of Pachelbel's Canon in D expertly played by the busking string quartet in the corner drowned out the clinks of change and the chatter of their gathered audience. Every once and a while, if someone was to place change in their basket, they would shout merrily or do a little dance, especially if the music had a accompanying crescendo. 

"Thank you!" The woman would sing, doing a little bow as her skilled fingers danced over the stings of her violin.

My breath misted in front of me as the song ended. All four bowed as the same woman grabbed their CD.

"That was Pachelbel's Cannon in D, featured on our CD!" She shouted, her voice as melodious as her playing. The crowd cheered and clapped, and the musicians smiled, laughing as they went into their next song. I too smiled as I sat back into the wooden chair. The cold December air meant nothing to these people. They would sit and stand around the performers, some on the tables of the restaurant, others sat on the steps of shops while many clustered at the railings. No, the cold meant nothing here. Not to the musicians nor to their listeners. A hot drink and warm coat was all that accompanied many, the steam drifting into the air as couples shared body heat and children plastered themselves to the warmth their parents offered.

As the music engulfed the market, the sound of London faded to the background as they played.

 

BREAKLINE

 

It seems that these midgardians celebrate a holiday called Christmas. Apparently, anything and everything is a cause for celebration here, much like on Asgard. The Asír however, celebrate in a more barbaric manner. It all seems quite civilised here. Gift giving and merrymaking. Much better than hunting, fighting and drinking. 

I decided fairly early in my little excursion that I was to move here. Now I just need a permanent place of residence. Money wasn't a problem, magic takes seconds and very little effort, I would be a millionaire in mere minutes. Finding a place to stay however seemed a bit of a bother. 

I did meet a rather charming old woman in a café on Baker Street one December morning, and couldn't help but overhear her plight for a tenant. Waiting until she'd sat down, I donned my most charming smile and approached her.

"Excuse me, but I couldn't help but overhear you earlier. You were looking for a tenant?" I asked meeting her gaze with my emerald eyes. They were beautiful eyes, even if I do say so myself.

"Yes!" She exclaimed, setting her teacup down with a sigh. "I just can't seem to get anyone in. It's the damp I suppose..." She trailed off, seeming lost in her damp-fuelled despair. "Why, would you be interested?"

"Indeed I would." I smiled, extending my hand for her to shake. "Loki Odinson. May I take a look at your flat?" The woman, bless her, stood immediately, shaking my hand with vigour I had previously thought impossible of a mortal of her age, and I was pulled by our still clasped hands out of the café and through a black door. 221B was nailed into the woodwork, the gold numbers glittering in the first streams of daylight. Something imperceptible shifted then, something with such gravity, that even now I marvel at the fact I didn't notice it then. 

As you can imagine, I bought the flat almost straight away and set to work with getting rid of what was nothing short of a damp epidemic. There was mould everywhere I turned. Easily sorted with a quick spell, but the smell lingered however much I tried to rid the air of it. The flat, consisting of one kitchen, two bathrooms, a living area and a bedroom. It wasn't furnished however, so I took it upon myself to duplicate some of my most treasured objects from home; my bed, desk, wardrobe and mirror from my chambers, the bath and sink from my bathroom, the bookcases from my library, the love seat and living chairs from Sígyn's rooms. While I loathed to spend time with my previous wife, her taste in living chairs was excellent. The grammar-phone I had come across on my travels through Victorian England found a lovely home in the bedroom, the bowl I used for scrying sat on the marble pedestal next to it. Any research I was doing on Asgard now resided on my desk in the rather large living space, the furniture I had duplicated from Sígyn's rooms in the middle of the room. I took out the radiator in the bedroom and replaced it with a hearth that looked somewhat similar to the one in my mother's chambers, and removed the chipped paint of the fireplace in the living room with smooth wood. The floral curtains in the bedroom became green silk drapes, the floors repaired and the walls and windows repainted green and gold. The rotting floor of the bathroom became marble, my bath sitting on a small platform in the back of the room, the sink and toilet on the left, the shower I'd found on my travels to America on the right. In the kitchen was another fireplace, a dining table with eight wooden chairs, a fridge, wooden counters, a small sink and a coffee machine. The living area held the chairs and love seat, the bookcases which lined the rightmost wall, my desk, a flat screen television and a rug that I'd picked up somewhere or another. Scones lined the walls of each room, flickering torches placed in everyone. I saw no need for electrical lights then, candles were on almost every flat surface and the whole place glowed a dim orange. The ceiling lights consisted of chandeliers of sculpted gold with a flame where the candles should have been. Torches of weaved gold and silver stood tall on the floor in the corners of the rooms, burning with a soft flame, mixing with the light of the street. Perfect. 

BREAKLINE

You may recall, in my earlier - if slightly long-winded, I do apologise - description, that I saw no need for electrical lighting. It was true, and it kept my electric bills down considerably. The fireplaces conveniently kept my gas bills right down, as I had no need for a boiler other than to heat water. The ingenuity of this plan saved both me, and the landlady Mrs Hudson quite a lot of money, and I kept the place warm at a surprisingly low cost. I don't really know why I'm telling you this, but it seemed important to write it down at the time.

It's now been six weeks since I moved in, and while many thought I hadn't left my flat other than to get on with my daily routine that no one saw me go about, I was actually back on Asgard. Father wanted me back for something important, which didn't turn out to be important at all, but kept me for a lot longer than that what I would've liked. 

So, after returning from Asgard slightly ruffled and thoroughly unimpressed, I was somewhat annoyed to find Mrs Hudson at my door.

"You haven't met Sherlock and John yet have you dear?" She'd asked - how do you midgardians say? - all smiles and sunshine. She'd once again dragged me by the wrist, up some stairs and into a flat that looked not unlike my own in size. A short, dark-blond haired man appeared from inside the kitchen, wiping his hands on his trousers before extending it to shake my own.

"You must be Loki, I'm John. John Watson." He introduced himself with a smile, clasping my hand in his own and shaking in firmly. I recognised him at once as a soldier, the way he held himself, the way he spoke, it reminded me somewhat of Thor and a little - dare I say it - of myself. Though I was not a soldier, I had been to battle, to war, and knew full well its consequences, yet this man wasn't the imbecile my brother was. I returned his smile, and decided to test my theory. Although I knew little of the battles this world and it's people faced, I knew enough to name the current wars they were fighting in.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" I asked as John blinked, noticing with interest that another man, Sherlock I assumed, had sprawled himself over the sofa. The soldier sent Mrs Hudson a questioning glance. The woman shook her head with a smile I could call nothing but knowing.

"Okay, how did you know?" John asked, dropping my hand.

"You hold yourself like a soldier, speak like a soldier. Easy enough to recognise, but your eyes gave you away."

"My eyes?" He demanded, crossing his hands across his chest. I raised an elegant eyebrow and smirked, but did not elaborate. 

"Sherlock I presume?" I asked, turning to the man draped on the sofa. He was truly a thing of beauty, and I should know, for I aspire to own all things beautiful. The man - no /Sherlock/ - had eyes the colour of Yggdrasil; a dazzling combination of gold, blue and green. His cheekbones where sharp, almost as sharp as my own, and his hair was a delightful mix of brown, auburn and black. I watched with some pleasure as the man's beautiful eyes widened slightly as he took me in. Smiling my most charming, and slightly seductive, smile I held out my hand for him to shake. To the surprise of seemingly everyone else in the room, he stood and shook my hand firmly. His fingers were perfect, well defined from years of playing an instrument but his skin of his pale hand was smooth against my own. If I let my hand linger for longer necessary, then it was merely by coincidence.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah! I'm soo sorry! It's been ages since I've posted anything on here... I promise you all that I'm still continuing with Hypnosis and Shenanigans in Rivendell, and I'm also working on another two stories as well, and I seem to get inspiration at the randomest of times... Blame my muse... 
> 
> But anyway, enjoy! :)

John Watson was an exceptionally nice man. Whether this was his true nature or simply a front I wasn't entirely sure. On one of the numerous occasions that he asked me 'round for tea' as he'd put it, while Sherlock was busy with an experiment I'd suggested, a blond man of average height barrelled up the stairs and through the door. Through his panting breaths I managed to glean that there had been a murder and that Sherlock and John were needed. While the prospect of murder immediately interested me, I didn't quite feel the need to stick my nose in just yet, and grabbed my umbrella in preparation to leave. It seemed, however, that Sherlock had other ideas, throwing my coat at me from across the room. Both John and the man I had yet to be introduced to looked confused, but the glint in Sherlock's eyes had me on my feet and following him without question. You see, dear reader, my intrigue and curiosity almost always led to trouble, often after following my insolent brother on some quest or another and ending up starting a war because Thor threw punches first and thought never. 

Soon we were outside and in a taxi, speeding along the roads of London faster than the law would allow. Resting my hands on the wooden handle of my umbrella - an accessory I always kept handy, for the English weather was as unpredictable as my nature - I pondered the mystery of a man who sat beside me. Aside from his physical appeal, his mind was brilliant. Something which I also found incredibly attractive. I found we could converse for hours about science, literature, music and, bizarrely, the annoyance of siblings. On more than one occasion we would sit and talk until the sun had set and risen again. 

"That'll be £10.55 please mate." The cab driver said, his voice gruff from years of smoking. Lung cancer was but around the corner for him. I paid him £12 and told him to keep the change. What use had I for £1.45? None at all.

Looking up once I'd got out of the cab I noticed we were outside the Natural History Museum. A strange place for a murder, I thought, but I supposed one couldn't really account for a murderer's taste. The DI, Lestrade his name was apparently, led us inside and into the exhibit on Norse Mythology in the Viking section. Lovely. 

I saw John stop at the section about me. I preened slightly that I even had a section, and that mine was considerably larger than Thor's. Through I had told them that my parents had an obsession with Norse Mythology (hence the name), I couldn't stop myself from reading and I read over John's shoulder. I wished I hadn't. A horse! They think I gave /birth/ to a horse?! Slepnir is my father's horse, in no way was I even involved in the existence of this horse, nor that of some wolf and snake beast I'd never heard of before! Who do these people think I am?! 

Despite myself I continued reading. Remember what I said earlier, about my curiosity getting the better of me? Well, this was one of those times. It described in full detail the episode with the dwarves where, in an attempt to save my neck, I tricked the dwarves into giving Asgard the best weapons they could offer and they could have my head as a reward. Not my best laid plan I must admit. Odin, the fool, had deemed that the second family of dwarves were better than the first, and so they could have my head. In a desperate attempt to save myself, I said that they could have my head without harming my neck, for only the head was in the bargain. It was obviously impossible to do so, so the dwarves stormed home and left us alone. What did I get in return? I had my lips sewn shut for my troubles. I ran the tips of my fingers across the scars I knew were still there. Not something I wanted to remember.

I turned my attention to the glass case next to the information plaque. My staff!! I vaguely remembered leaving it in a small village, the company was exceptional you see, and I paid for their hospitality with my golden staff. I'd expected them to melt it down into weapons or jewellery of some kind, but it seemed that my reputation preceded me even then, for it was buried with the chief and they'd engraved the fact that the staff was mine on the stone of the small tablet he was buried with. Well, if it was here and in seemingly good condition, I saw no reason why I shouldn't retrieve it later.

"Security found him this morning." Lestrade said, effectively drawing my attention to the body in the boat. The man was dressed in Viking armour and his ginger hair and beard were braided traditionally. There was a note stuck to his chest with an arrow and it was written in Norse runes; a language which I spoke, read and wrote in fluently. Taking a pair of gloves from John, I knelt and removed the arrow.

"Ég vona að þú njótir leikur minn. Ég leita bara að þóknast þér Guð minn Skaði og Lies. Senda ást mína til Þórs." I read aloud with a horrid sinking feeling. I noticed the confused faces of everyone else quite suddenly. I then realised that I'd read it in Norse, and suddenly remembered that no one else could understand me. I translated with a sigh. "I hope you enjoy my game. I only seek to please you my God of Mischief and Lies. Send my love to Thor." 

My blood ran cold when the helmet was removed. This was no mortal. He was a warrior. What was he doing here on Midgard?

"This is no man." I said, sitting back on my ankles. I knew him and had fought alongside him. This was Gunnarr. I pinched the bridge of my nose and stepped into my role as prince. He was one of my people after all. "Get Thor." I ordered, seemingly to no one. 

This couldn't be dealt with here. 

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, for once, confused. I understood it fully. Asgardians look remarkably like humans. I'd just opened my mouth to answer when I heard the familiar hum of the Bifrost. Thor barged in, in full armour, hammer at the ready and fully prepared to start hitting things. 

"Brother!" He boomed. I felt irritation swell already as I rolled my eyes. "Why have you summoned me? This had better be important, the Warriors Three and I-"

"I care little for your escapades Thor, it's a wonder father even allows you out with all the wars you cause." I stated, moving out of the way of the boat so Thor could see. I could already see the anger in his face and he lifted his hammer higher. Knowing Thor as well as I did, I knew that he wouldn't hesitate to smash everything in the room, including the people in it.

"When did this happen?" He asked. I looked at Lestrade for a time of death.

"I-um-ah-" The DI said, stumbling over his words. He clearly didn't expect to be addressed. I had noticed him staring at me earlier. I'd obviously interrupted his admiring of me.

"Ten pm last night." A man, Anderson I was to be later informed, sneered. I nodded sagely, internally rolling my eyes at him.

"What I don't understand is what he's doing here. I would've detected any use of the bifrost in the area, and I haven't for almost six months now, there is no way he could've gotten here without using it, or without Heimdall knowing." I said, moving to stand over the body. "Has father said anything about him being missing?" 

"We hadn't seen him train for a while, but we assumed he was still healing after-"

"After you led him to Jotünheim and he almost died, so you assumed he was healing and you didn't bother to see if he was well. Did no one check on him at all? None of you?" I accused, feeling myself grow angry. It was Thor's fault Gunnarr was injured! The imbecile hadn't even bothered to check on him to see if he was okay. My brother was a fool and the Warriors Three were even stupider. If Thor thought I could, and would, get him out of this mess, he was sorely mistaken.

"Why do they wish to please you brother?" I heard him ask quietly. The sinking feeling I'd felt earlier came back full force. I couldn't blame it all on Thor, this psycho wished to please me also. 

"I don't know. I don't know how they know who I am." I replied, my voice barely above a whisper, not wanting anyone else to hear. "Take him back to Asgard, I'll stay here. That way if anything else happens, I'll be here for it." I suggested, smiling as Thor nodded, walked obediently over to the body while ignoring the protests of everyone in the room, including Sherlock, hoisted it in his arms and strode out with a shouted goodbye to me. I rolled my eyes at his likeness to a Golden Retriever, a breed of dog I'd become accustomed to during my stay on Midgard. I folded the note delicately and slipped it into my pocket for further examination. 

"What the hell-?!" John started indignantly, but I cut him off.

"Dr John Hamish Watson, you were in the army. You understand, then, that somethings are best dealt with elsewhere." I said cryptically, looking down my nose at the man who was blinking at my knowledge of his full name. "My brother is capable of handling this."

"You said he wasn't a man." Sherlock stated, turning an accusing eye on me. By the gods, he was incredibly attractive when he was angry. I should wind him up more often. But more pressingly, I had to come up with something to satisfy him. Or did I? Surely it would entice him more if I left him hanging, never satisfying his curiosity was defiantly appealing to me. So, I shrugged, plucked my umbrella from the railing I'd hung it on earlier and swiftly exited the room. Sherlock would follow me, he was curious, it's what people do isn't it?

I smiled inwardly as, when I was about to open the door to leave the exhibit on Scandinavia, I found those perfect hands around my wrists, pulling me backwards rather violently. 

"What did you mean? When you said he wasn't a man, what did you mean?" The detective demanded, his eyes alight with something I couldn't quite place. Intriue? Possibly. I smirked as I realised just how close we were standing, watching how his breathing increased when he noticed too. You see, I had a theory. A theory that Sherlock was rather /interested/ in me. Now, as any good scientist would vouch, a theory needed to be tested. I intended to test this theory rigorously.

"I meant," I began, my voice dropping an octave, "exactly what I said. He is not a human." Sherlock inhaled at my voice, but I didn't intend to stop there. I slowly took a step towards him, forcing him against the wall as he took a step back. I debated the idea of taking him then and there, but there were two many people close by. I could practically hear his heart hammering in his chest and his dilated pupils had nothing to do with the semi-darkness of the room. My face was mere inches away from his and I could feel his breath on my skin. Oh how I wanted to lean in and kiss him, but alas, I could hear footsteps in the corridor, undoubtedly belonging to John. "Just like me." I whispered, my lips almost brushing against his as I spoke. I smiled as I saw his brain practically shut down. I stepped back just as John turned the corner, nodded farewell to him and then left. I looked back just in time to see barely-concealed anger on the doctor's face. Laughing, I hailed a cab and rode home.

I could tell Sherlock had thought constantly about my final words to him at the Museum. The lingering glances that were less than platonic were a major giveaway, and I could always feel him trying to work me out.

I found myself going on more and more cases with John and Sherlock. London was rife with crime and some murders were extremely creative. Others were boring. I'm sure even the Old Man himself could've done better with a ballpoint pen. 

"Why are you in such pain. So misunderstood but why, why? Why do they despise you so much?" I'd heard Sherlock say. I hadn't realised until fairly recently that he was talking about me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, I'm sooo sorry! My writer's block was terrible, and I understand if you all want to kill me, but here is chapter 3 :)
> 
> I made up the ritual, just so you know. This is in no way historically accurate :)
> 
> As usual,  
> Enjoy :)

I sighed. This was the second murder with a Norse theme now. The second murder with a connection to me. In this one, however, the killer had gone through a lot of trouble to make it authentic.

In the centre of the warehouse lay a golden bath, in it was a body of a woman submerged in bloody water. She wore a once-white dress and her hair was braided not unlike that of my mother's. Gold bands held her ebony hair in place, her head lay back from where her throat and wrists had been slit. A golden dagger lay on the side of the bath, along with two solid gold jugs. Candles were everywhere, bathing the room in a flickering golden hue. The smell of incense and blood hung heavy in the air. I knew instantly how she had died.

I stepped to the edge of the bath and tilted her head forwards. At the base of her skull lay the small incision I'd expected to be there. My suspicions confirmed, I turned to face everyone else. 

"What was it? A ritual of some kind?" Lestrade asked, eager to capture my attention. 

"Yes." I started, knowing that my secret was to revealed here once and for all. "Every Asír must undergo it, a coming of age thing I suppose. For us, it was a ritual to receive god status."

"God- god what?" John exclaimed incredulous. I rolled my eyes. He was terribly slow. After an hour of explaining, re-explaining and then explaining some more, I decided that the best way was to show them.

BREAKLINE

I sighed. Thor and three others - two female, one male - who had been...persuaded into helping us stood by my side at the abandoned warehouse I'd told everyone to meet us at. We'd laid everything out, almost in the exact place that everything was in the crime scene. Ylva, the oldest of us all, had her blond hair tied up. Her blue eyes sparkled in the candle light. Gyða's raven hair fell just below her waist, her silver eyes matching her dress. Arnviðr, who was certainly easy on the eye, stood a respectful distance behind me. He was my manservant after all. His white-gold hair was untidy, and I liked that about him. He had eyes bluer than sapphires and a voice as smooth as silk. He was once the object of my affections for many a millennia, but father forbade it. Shame, he really was good too. The opening of the door cut across my thoughts.

"Are you sure about this brother?" Thor whispered to me as everyone filtered into the warehouse, identical looks of confusion on their faces. Sherlock, however looked intrigued. 

"Of course Thor. Anyway, if I die, you can tell father it was my idea." I joked. "We've both done this before, and we're still here, so stop fretting and get on with it."

"Loki." He sighed, half exasperated, half fond. I smiled and explained to everyone why we were here.

"Because it seemed a simple explanation wasn't enough for you," I began, mostly addressing Anderson, Donavan and John, "I thought that it would be a good idea to show you. Thor was kind enough to help me." I finished. It was time to begin then. 

One of the servants, Ylva, smiled at me as she reached for one of the jugs of water. I looked Sherlock in the eyes as Arnviðr took off my shirt and ran his hands down my chest, making me shiver. I saw Sherlock inhale sharply and I smiled inwardly. The water was freezing, just as I'd expected, as Ylva poured it over me. Gyða, with the golden dagger, made a small incision into the base of my skull, directly over the scar of the previous one. To this day, I still am unsure as to why it was done. I then stepped into the empty bath and sat down. Now for the bit that had always disgusted me. From the second jug, Thor poured the blood of a goat into my mouth while Arnviðr held my nose and opened my mouth. Arnviðr was surprisingly sympathetic, especially since he'd not done the ritual himself. I forced myself not to gag as the thick liquid slid down my throat, the excess falling down my chin. It was horrible, but I assumed the theory was that if you could stick that, you could stick the horrors of war. 

I watched with growing restlessness as Arnviðr then turned to pick up a candle. He handed it to Thor and I closed my eyes in preparation. I'd made the mistake once of leaving them open and I had no desire to repeat it. Ignoring everyone's gasps and shouts, Thor poured the scalding candle wax over my eyes, burning the skin and sealing them closed.

Ylva then conjured water, again ice cold, and poured it into the bath until it was full. Thor held one of my hands in the air while Arnviðr held the other. I braced myself as they simultaneously dragged a dagger across my wrists while Gyða chanted a spell to prevent healing. The blades sliced through the skin, veins and tendons. Ylva began to chant in Old-Norse, her voice sending ripples of power through the room. I clenched my fists to draw more blood from the cuts. When I felt myself go lightheaded from blood loss, they dropped my hands. Thor placed a hand over my nose and mouth and pushed me under the water. They counted to one hundred and twenty in old Norse before pulling me up. I just had enough time to drag in half a breath before I was under again. They repeated this twice before dragging me up, slitting my throat and throwing me under again. After a thirty seconds, my lungs were screaming for air I could not provide, I was fast losing blood and my mind was clouding over. My hands, that were previously digging into Thor's arms, fell away into the water. Ylva continued to chant, her voice monotonous. Arnviðr poured the remaining goat's blood into the water while Gyða continued to whisper her anti-healing spell. Suddenly, everything stopped. I faintly felt Thor pull my head out of the water, I didn't need to see to know what he was doing. I felt his calloused hands open my mouth, revealing my bloodied teeth, and although I'd expected it, I couldn't help but cry out as more wax was poured into my mouth and down my throat, burning everything in it's path. I now couldn't breathe, he'd sealed my windpipe. This was another test. To see how long I could remain alive without oxygen, while losing blood, while in agonising pain. 

The answer was fifteen minutes. A remarkable feat I'm sure you'd agree. My heart stopped, Thor let me go and I fell back into the water. Gyða reversed her spell, Ylva stopped chanting and Arnviðr came to stand beside Thor. 

Nothing happened for several minutes.

Then, my magic flooded me, restarted my heart and healed my wounds. I sat upwards, coughing up the blood and wax that filled my mouth and throat. I sucked in gulps of air, before working on steadying myself. Wiping the wax out of my eyes I stood up, taking in the shocked, even tear stained faces of everyone who had watched. Arnviðr helped me out of the bath and then bowed respectfully, as did Ylva and Gyða. Thor looked proud, for whatever reason, and dipped his head in respect. 

"No mortal could've survived that. No one can." I said, gratefully accepting the towel Ylva brought out of nowhere.

"You survived it." John said, his voice sure.

"No he didn't." Thor answered in my stead. "Can you hold your breath for six minutes?" John shook his head.

"Neither can I." I stated. I looked at Thor with mischief in my eyes. He sighed in exasperation but I ignored him. Dr John Watson was too sure of himself. I walked over to him with my hand extended, an invitation for him to feel my pulse. I smiled when his eyes widened. 

"That's not possible." He spluttered, dropping my hand. Ah how I loved being able to stop blood flow to a specific part of my body at will.

I turned back to face my brother. 

"How long did I last?"

"Fifteen minutes. Not bad. You even beat father." He said offhandedly. So that was why he looked so proud, I'd lasted longer than Odin himself. I caught Arnviðr's eye and an idea formed in my mind. An opportunity to make Sherlock both speechless and jealous in one day was one I was unwilling to pass up.

"Takk for hjelpen Arnviðr, vil jeg være evig takknemlig. (Thank you for your help Arnviðr, I will be forever grateful.)" I said quietly, coming to stand in front of him. Sherlock's eyes were trained on me.

"Gleden var min, min prins. (The pleasure was mine, my prince.)" He replied, smiling one of the smiles that had always got him whatever he wanted, especially from me. He pulled me in for a kiss that had Thor and the Asír rolling their eyes, and the others gasping. I froze momentarily, the kiss taking my completely by surprise, but I figured the damage had already been done, and so I relaxed into it and indulged myself in the familiarity of his embrace.

When I pulled away, and I did quite quickly, Lestrade looked comically crushed and Sherlock, oh Sherlock, he looked on the verge of tears. I didn't quite feel guilt, but I did feel rather bad. Well, shit. Thor, sensing my dilemma, gave me a way out.

"Mother expects you back for the coronation, shall we leave now?" He asked. I nodded. Although it was a bit harsh, leaving Sherlock like that, I needed a way out and I was more than grateful to accept his. With a flash, the bifrost engulfed us, and we were gone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Here's chapter 4! I apologise in advance for the ending lol :)
> 
> As usual,  
> Enjoy :)

Now, dear reader, if you cast your mind back far enough, you may be able to recall my hasty retreat to Asgard after the ritual demonstration. Well, it was less than pleasant.

Let me take you through the events. I went to Asgard for my brother's coronation, not something I would've minded missing, but there you go. Some of you may know what happened there, what I discovered and what it did to me. Genocide aside, my mind was indeed in a place dark and dangerous. I was a monster, something my parents had always taught me to fear, to loathe. To find out I was one, a frost giant, the runt of a kingdom? Everything made sense to me then. The bullying, the favouritism, the snark, the punishment. Thor could start a war that would cost thousands of lives and would be told not to do it again. Me? Little Loki would be chained in the dungeon, have his lips sewn together, be strapped under a snake whose venom would burn through his skin until only the bone was left. For what? For cutting Síf's hair or for breathing incorrectly.

My glamour was so strong, that I could not find where it stopped and I began. When I'd let go of my fa- of Odin's staff, it was what I wanted more than anything. I wanted to die. Not one person wanted me, no one cared about me. My mother, the only one I was stupid enough to believe actually loved me, said nothing as Thor barged in. Even Arnviðr turned his back. Not that I minded. He was a piece of fun, and we both knew it.

But, I let go and I died.

What, I hear you cry. Surely he could not of died, how is he here, writing this? Well, my friends, I shall tell you, albeit briefly for I am sure you already know most of it.

New York. Not my finest hour I must admit, but you must understand. My mind was not my own. The staff worked both ways as I'm sure you figured out. It was in my eye colour. Blue not green? I'm surprised none of you noticed. 

But then, Thor came. The oaf knew nothing of the tesseract, the chains and muzzle were simply an inconvenience. For the last time, I leeched some of its power and fled to the only place I thought safe. I fled to the only place I could call home. 

Baker Street.

I materialised in the hallway below the stairs. The cuffs were draining my power, stripping my glamour and revealing my wounds. Thanos was screaming in my head, blood was seeping from everywhere and it was getting colder. I didn't need to look at my hands. They were colder than everything else. I must have made some noise, for Mrs Hudson appeared.

"Don't touch me." I rasped out, staggering forwards, chains clinking. The sound came out as nothing more than a groan. Partly because of the muzzle, but mostly from the pain. I grabbed the banister for support and felt it freeze beneath my hands. Mrs Hudson took a step back as the wood crackled from the cold, my hands freezing the moisture in the woodwork. Suddenly Sherlock was there. I couldn't see him through the blue haze that was filling my vision. No, this wasn't happening, not here. The Other wouldn't win, not now. I used every last scrap of my magic and my will to force him out. My vision blackened and I fell, the floor turning to ice around me as my glamour fell away.

BREAKLINE

"What the hell is he?!" Someone shouted. I didn't know who it was, but I wished they'd shut up. 

"I-"

"He's blue Sherlock! He's fucking blue!"

"Well observed John." Sherlock! Sherlock was there? Oh no. He'd seen me. If I was blue, then he knew.. He knews what I was. I didn't need to know anything else. My body came back to me slowly. The chains and muzzle were still there. It seemed I would remain the monster then. I groaned to let them know I was awake, but I didn't open my eyes. I didn't like my eyes, not now, not anymore. "Loki?" 

I grunted in response.

"I'm sorry, I-I don't know how to get the chains off." Sherlock whispered. He sounded upset. I immediately felt guilty. I motioned for him to step back, which he did, and I sat up. I knew how to get out of magic binding chains that weren't as tight as they should've been. I sent a silent, if somewhat damning, thank you to Odin for siring such an incompetent child. Biting down hard on the metal that filled my mouth, I pulled my hands through the cuffs until my bones snapped under the strain. My thumbs dislocated and my hands slipped free. I let out a strangled cry when the mouthpiece sliced through my mouth, ripping the skin of my inner-cheek and tongue. The metal bent under the force of my bite as my mouth filled with blood. I'd always despised the coppery taste of my own blood on the air, and I liked it no more when my mouth was assaulted with it. Everything hurt so much. I felt my tears freeze against my cheeks as I cried silently. I heard John leave, his heavy footsteps banging down the stairs, out of the door and into the street. It was only Sherlock who remained, standing back out of something that was, in my mind, nothing other than fear. Keeping my eyes closed, I led down. The cuff's were off and my magic flooded me. My bones snapped into place as my glamour returned. Using my magic to unlock the muzzle I breathed in as it fell away, feeling the blood pour from my mouth. I didn't want to move. I didn't want to do anything.

"Sherlock." I mumbled, although of came out as more of a gurgle. My mouth was still bleeding, every wound from being Hulk-smashed into the floor was bleeding, every torture wound from Thanos, from The Other was bleeding. My eyes were flickering from blue to green, my mind clearing then clouding and I could do nothing to stop it. When Sherlock turned to look, the words 'kill me' very nearly escaped my mouth. The detective must have read them however, because he was sat on the bed, his bed, next to me in an instant.

"What have they done to you Loki?" He asked, looking as if he wanted to touch me but couldn't. When I opened my eyes I knew they were blue, the anger and hate that filled me wasn't my own.

"What have they done to me?" I growled, standing with strength that didn't belong to me. Sherlock stumbled back in surprise, but he stopped just before he hit the window ledge. He'd noticed something.

"Your eyes. They're blue." He stated. I felt Thanos stumble to a halt. Finally someone had noticed. The small part of my mind that still belonged to me cried out in joy.

"They've always been blue." I heard myself say. Thanos was panicking now. If he was this distracted, I could reclaim my mind. For how long, I was unsure.

"No. No, they were green." Sherlock said. Thanos was too busy trying to think of something to say, so I fought. I fought him and for once I won. My eyes flickered green. I stumbled forwards and Sherlock caught me. I could've cried with relief. I clung to Sherlock like a lifeline. He held me close to his chest and pulled me down to sit next to him on the bed.

Now, more than any time in my whole life, I wanted my brother and my mother to understand me. Now, after everything that had been done through me, I wanted them to understand. It wasn't me, I could never, I would never do such a thing. I shook in Sherlock's arms, sobbing harder than I'd ever had in my entire life, and removed the illusion that kept me hidden from Heimdall. I begged him to only send Thor, maybe even my mother if she was willing. I vaguely noticed that Sherlock's shirt was stained with blood, my blood. 

"Loki!" Thor boomed, almost breaking the door down. It seemed as if Heimdall had granted me this one wish, for only my mother was with him. Frigga, bless her, ignored Thor's protests and wrapped her arms around me once Sherlock had moved. I clung to her as I had as a babe, but it seemed that Thanos had other ideas. 

"No, please no." I whispered, feeling the anger, the hate seep into me. Sherlock had noticed, and he pulled my mother away from me despite her struggle. Curling in on myself, I screamed in pain, hopelessness and frustration. "Let me go, please. You got what you wanted now let me go." I begged, utterly desperate. "Please, you got New York, let me go." Thanos laughed as he shook his head, no. Thor looked confused and torn. 

"Look at his eyes." Sherlock said softly. "They're blue."

"Like Barton's." Thor realised. If I were able, I would've congratulated him. 

"So smart brother." I sneered, uncurling from within myself and sliding off the bed. "It's a shame I'll have to kill you."

"Stop this Loki." Thor said.

"Loki?! This is not Loki. The poor thing," I began, my voice sounding more of a coo, "so hurt, so rejected. He was so easy to manipulate. With a little persuasion of course." Thanos was laughing gleefully, the crude sound echoing in my mind. I was very much a pawn in his little game. Suddenly the staff was in my hand, it's weight familiar yet unwelcome. Through the veil of ice that covered my vision I saw Thor call for his hammer. I blasted it away with a burst of energy. I felt my arm move and I realised that the point of the staff was pointed at Sherlock.

I fought. I fought Thanos more than I ever had before. Not Sherlock. Never Sherlock. I felt thick liquid slide down my cheek. It was blood, my eyes were bleeding. I was using every once of my magic to fight him, but to no avail. I dropped my glamour, stopped my healing spells and diverted everything to getting Thaons out. My will could only get me so far however. For the one moment I regained control I turned the staff around and in one swift movement I pushed it through my chest and into my heart. A bright blue light engulfed the room, and I fell to my knees. Thanos was gone, he was gone and I was free.


End file.
